


Free Fall

by LittleDarkling



Category: Dark Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 22:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDarkling/pseuds/LittleDarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. No infringement intended</p><p>Written during the first season of 'Dark Blue'</p>
    </blockquote>





	Free Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. No infringement intended
> 
> Written during the first season of 'Dark Blue'

It is a cycle, two lives stuck on a yet unbroken loop. Like a record skipping over and over, the same lyric, the same words until one can go mad from listening.

 

Dean is waiting on the stoop when Carter returns home, long legs splayed out, leaning back, elbows propped on the warm concrete steps. Carter has been walking for a long time. He had no specific destination when he started walking and if asked where he went, he would be able to recall nothing more than the cracked asphalt and the yellow of the street lights. He looks up as he crosses the street. The sky above is black, stars consumed by the thickness of the unnatural light. Like everything else here, fake, artificial. Nicole always said she missed the stars, the way that they had looked over her family’s ranch in Montana. ‘Like a thousand winking angels’ eyes’, she had said. Carter can’t remember the last time he saw stars. There are times when he truly hates Los Angeles.  
Dean doesn’t move as Carter approaches, except to lift his blue eyes to meet those of his boss. The moonlight flits weakly across his face, exposing the pattern of bruises left by the gun, that color his face, red, blue and black fanning across pale skin. Blotched red and still slightly swollen, at the temple where the butt of weapon broke flesh, a cut sealed beneath a butterfly strip.

“What are you doing here?” Carter asks.

“Waiting for you,” Dean replies, the deep voice that rumbles out of him unfitting of the wiry frame in which it dwells.

“You shouldn’t have come,” the older man says. Dean shrugs, a roll of his narrow shoulders. He smiles slightly and the split in his bottom lip is made even more evident.

“Thought the doctor told you to get some rest,” he says.

“I am resting,” Dean replies, hand waving slightly as if to gesture to his casual slouch against the stairs. Carter fishes his keys from his jacket pocket and steps past the younger man as he climbs the stairs to the door. Dean doesn’t move. Carter unlocks the deadbolt and opens the door. He looks over his shoulder.

“You coming in or you staying out here?” he asks. Dean tilts his head back, sharp eyes looking at his boss with a certain idle curiosity, his expression carefully neutral.

“What do you want me to do, Carter?” The older man sighs.

“I’m in no mood for games tonight. C’mon.” He gestures to the door and holds it open as Dean stands up slowly. He doesn’t miss the wince or the way that Dean’s hand moves automatically to his side as he gets up.

“You alright?” Carter asks. Dean nods as he trudges to the door.

“Little sore,” he mumbles. He crosses the threshold and Carter follows, locking and bolting the door behind him.

   Dean was so young when he joined the Force, barely a day over twenty-three. He’d graduated high school and started college. Associate’s degree in criminal justice and then jumped right into the LAPD. He’d been a sharp guy, all around. SAT, Academy entrance exam. Really, Carter had figured if this kid had known better, they probably would have lost him to one of the government’s alphabet soup. He and Ty had graduated the Academy together, then gotten split up to different precincts. It was Ty who had brought Dean in. Carter had been looking for another man. Someone preferably white, to get in with a gang of scumbag neo-Nazi bikers who were dealing in meth. Dean had been…well, if he was pretty now, he was a helluva lot prettier back then. Wheat colored hair slicked back, clean-shaven face, big blue eyes staring out from a flutter of too-long lashes. Carter had taken one look at him and said, ‘Hell, no’. Ty had told Dean to stay put and then followed his boss, demanding to know why.

“He’s perfect!” Ty had exclaimed. “Look at him.”  
“He is too damn pretty. I’m not running a modeling agency here. Looks like he’d fall over in a breeze. Has he even seen any street time?” Carter demanded.  
“He’s scored top of his class in hand-to-hand combat and he’s spent the last six months in vice. This kid can handle himself.” Carter had looked at Dean who stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes shifting over the small room.  
“Alright. Fine. But I even smell an amateur operation here and he is out.”

Ty’s judgment had been spot on. Dean had shown up two days before the op, head shaved bare and having grown just enough stubble to give him that vaguely roguish look. He’d handled his end of the op well. There’d been some mistakes, but no more than one would expect from a rookie and no one died except for four bikers. One, by Carter’s hand and three when the meth lab they were in the process of dismantling exploded. And Carter didn’t much figure the city of LA was going to weep for them.

Once the op was over, Dean let his hair grow back, but it kept it short and spiked and he never did ditch the stubble. Ty had teased him mercilessly about it at first, but now he agreed that it suited Dean pretty well.  
Ty lives his life waiting for the job to be over, for that moment he can return home to his wife, to the mundane normalcy of civilian life. Dean, meanwhile, lives his life waiting for the next job, the next score. Carter presides over it all, splitting himself between the normal, and the deviant. One foot in the light and one in the shadow. It’s how he holds onto both of them. Ty, who wants nothing more than his own identity and Dean who wants nothing more than someone else’s.

Carter watches Dean make a slow circle around the room, looking over everything as if he’s seeing it for the first time. He’s been here before, many times, but he always walks the same steady circle. Carter shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the couch.

“You on painkillers?” Dean shakes his head.

“Told ‘em I didn’t need ‘em,” he says. Somehow that doesn’t surprise Carter much. Dean’s always been a tough bastard and he’s got a pretty high tolerance for pain.

“You want a beer?” he asks. Dean looks at him.

“Sure,” he says quietly. In profile, Dean looks fierce. His face is sharp lines, but his cheeks have a delicate curve and his lips are the cliché Cupid’s bow. He stands at slight angle, still favoring his right leg. He’s long and lanky, and as sleek and dangerous as he in the field, here in Carter’s living room, he seems an awkward collection of too-long limbs slapped together under worn leather, cotton and denim.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Carter says. Dean limps wordlessly to couch and falls onto it. Carter pulls two beers from the fridge and walks back into the living room.  
Their jobs carry great risk, perhaps more so because the intell on their unit is so limited. Most of the PD, even the feds are not privy to their existence. Carter had insisted on this, a requirement to keep his people safe from leaks. It’s a double-edged sword. No one knows who they are, but no one knows who they are. Every day is a balancing act between safeguarding the lives of the public and most of the police, to whom they must appear as criminals and killers, and safeguarding their own lives.

    Tonight had proved just how fragile that line is. In the mêlée of breaking up a child trafficking ring, they had lost track of Dean. At that point, there had been no reason to fear for his safety. The members were being rounded up, the children were being handled by Protective Services and there were uniformed police swarming the location. As soon as things got more organized, Ty had gone looking for Dean, who had yet to appear with the other flesh peddlers who were being herded toward the cars. What he had found was his partner on the ground, being ruthlessly pistol-whipped by a fellow police officer. Carter’s head had snapped around when he heard Ty’s shout of outrage. When he caught up to Ty’s location, Dean was struggling into a sitting position and spitting blood onto the concrete, while Ty straddled a fat uniformed officer’s chest and laid blow after blow to the man’s face. It had taken both Carter and Jamie to pull him off. Ty had torn away from them and gone to see to Dean while Jamie dealt with the officer. Carter had watched as Ty crouched beside his friend, trying to assess his injuries. Blood was trickling free from Dean’s mouth and the gash on his temple, running down his face, droplets catching on his chin before dripping onto the pavement. Stubborn as ever, he continually pushed Ty’s hand away until the other man had snapped at him to let him get a look.

Ty had received a reprimand of his actions in regards to the officer, but remained unapologetic. He had stayed with Dean while the doctor checked him over and assured Carter that he would take the younger man home. Of course, he could only take Dean home; he could not the force him to stay. Carter had no doubt that as soon as Ty had left, Dean had come here.

Dean takes the beer gratefully and downs half in one shot. Carter doesn’t take more than a sip from his as he settles into the loveseat and he watches the younger man’s slender throat work, like a bird, adam’s apple jumping in his throat as he swallows. Dean catches Carter’s eye as he lowers the bottle and he smiles sheepishly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” he says, the soft apology followed by a burp. Carter smiles slightly, shaking his head. They sit in silence for a few minutes. Dean’s eyes sweep the room again and settle finally on the picture of Carter and Nicole. It was taken the Christmas before the divorce. Carter is wearing the heinous red reindeer sweater that her grandmother had knitted for him and Nicole is wearing an equally embarrassing snowman one. They’re both flushed and laughing. They’d gotten into Nicole’s father’s special eggnog mix, Carter remembers. He looks at Dean. Nicole probably would have liked him. A different time, a different place, he might have been better at this. Provided the family and the stability that Dean desperately seems to need. But Nicole was both, and without her, Carter has neither.

“Did you identify yourself?” Carter asks suddenly. Dean turns his attention back to his boss and blinks at him.

“Huh?”

“Did you identity yourself to that officer?” Dean shrugs.

“I can’t remember.”

“You don’t remember if you identified yourself to a man who was beating you with the butt of a nine-mill?” the older man asks. Dean arches an eyebrow.

“That’s what I said, Carter,” he replies. Subordination has never been Dean’s forte. And yet in his own way, he is constantly seeking Carter’s approval.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” he presses. Dean scratches his arm through the cracked black leather of his jacket and takes another stiff swig of beer.

“Didn’t seem worth it at the time,” he says. They fall into silence again and it is oppressive, weighted. Dean has not spoken about the things he witnessed this time. It was a case that no one else in the PD wanted. Ty had refused, believing that Carter would kick the case to the Feds. He had been furious when he found out Dean volunteered. Carter had initially thought it better to leave this to the Soup, but Dean had been insistent and in the end, it was an operation that could not afford failure and he trusted Dean to see it through, more than he trusted the Feds.

During his brief communications with Carter, Ty or Jamie, Dean gave up any and all intell he had gathered. He never told them specifically about the heinous acts that took place in his presence, but he didn’t need to. It was all on the home-made DVDs he’d managed to swipe and upload to thumb-drives which he palmed to Carter or Ty. But nothing in his own words. If they questioned him, he would just stare at them as if they had asked something of complete nonsense that had nothing to do with the op. Jamie called it, the ‘what’s that have to do with the price of milk in China?’ look. Carter could not begin to imagine what was going on in his head. He’d seen the footage, but Dean had to experience it in flesh and still keep his cover. Ty had said later that Dean was a better UC than he was because he would have shot the bastards where they stood, cover be damned. And Carter has no doubt that he was not exaggerating.

But Dean…Dean was good. At the price of sanity and soul, he held his cover. There was a saying he’d heard once, amongst the prosecutors in Louisiana. ‘If you want to convict the Devil, you have to go to Hell to find your witnesses’. That was the gist of UC work, too. Even now, after it was all over, Dean refused to describe anything, as if fearing that if he did give it voice, that it would become real. In his head, it was likely that saying nothing was the difference between keeping it locked away in the darkness where it couldn’t hurt him and letting it run loose until it became an endless nightmare that consumed him completely. Carter knew he’d have to force a sit-down with the department shrink, but he hadn’t wanted to breach that topic with Dean yet.

“How did—” he begins. Dean sets the beer bottle down hard, enough to make the surface of the coffee table tremble.

“I didn’t come here to talk,” he interrupts. His movements are somehow, sluggish and graceful at the same time. Dean slides onto the floor, crawling on hands and knees toward Carter. The older man groans softly at the sight.

“Dean…” he begins. Dean pauses between his knees. He sits up, hands resting on his thighs.

“You know why I’m here,” he says, voice soft and low.

“We can’t keep doing this. One day, it’s gonna blow up in both our faces.” Dean rises up on his knees, slides his hands up Carter’s lean muscular thighs. His thumbs rub along the edge of the zipper of Carter’s jeans, which suddenly seem impossibly, painfully tight. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t argue Carter’s point, just begins to work open the button-fly. Carter traps a soft sob behind his lips as he reaches out, stroking his fingers through his subordinate’s hair, along the curve of a bruised cheek. Dean’s eyes lift to meet his.

“Get up,” he murmurs softly. “Get up, Dean.” Dean looks at him for a moment, hands still on the zipper of his jeans. Finally, he scoots back and stands up.

“Take off your jacket.” Dean’s expression, so carefully schooled in neutrality after all this time working undercover, never wavers. He strips out of his jacket, tossing it aside with the same carelessness that Carter discarded his own earlier. He toes off his black and white Converse without being told. It leaves him in his much abused Kings jersey and his jeans. Carter stands up, pushing away from the loveseat. Dean doesn’t back away, stands stone still, chin tilted up in challenge. Carter cups the younger man’s cheek with his left hand, brushes his thumb across the plump bottom lip, over the cut at its center. Dean’s tongue slips out to touch the pad. He reaches boldly to curl his fingers into his boss’ shirt, draw him closer. Carter tilts his head, lips hovering over the younger man’s lips.

“It’s going to hurt,” he murmurs. Dean nods, lips parting in anticipation.

“Good,” he replies, free hand clasping the back of Carter’s neck. He pulls him down, bringing their mouths together in a rough collision. Carter tastes blood as the split in the younger man’s lip reopens. His tongue is sweet and hot, the taste of the beer pushing into Carter’s mouth, somehow more enticing, mingled with Dean’s saliva. Carter’s hands thread through Dean’s short hair as much as he can; his fingernails drag lightly over scalp. He presses his tongue against Dean’s forcing it back; he had no intention of letting his subordinate assume control. His fingers close on the back of Dean’s head, holding tight as he slams his mouth harder into the younger man’s, feeling the heat of his blood smear between their lips. Dean is hard already, hips pressing frantically into his lieutenant’s. Carter groans softly, dragging his fingers through the younger man’s close cropped hair. He grips Dean’s shirt and turns him abruptly, pushing him back.

He navigates the space of the living room by memory, herding the younger man toward the wall and pressing him against it. Dean’s long fingers dig into his boss’ untidy mop of dark hair as he bites at Carter’s mouth, hard enough to make it sting. Carter tightens his hold in Dean’s hair and yanks his head back roughly, ignoring the growl of warning that issues from Dean’s lips.

“Watch it,” he says, hard and sharp and watches Dean’s eyes flash. He swallows whatever smartass objection the younger man means to make. Carter no longer concerns himself with trying to be gentle; he shoves his thigh roughly between Dean’s and smiles at the groan that vibrates against his lips. He grinds his own arousal, straining through the fabric of his jeans against the young officer’s, the contact sending sharp shocks of pleasure through him. His hands slip beneath the jersey to touch hot skin. He feels the whip-chord muscles tremble as his fingers make first contact. Tearing his lips from Dean’s, he drags them across the rough stubble, over the curve of his chin and down to his throat. The younger man tilts his head, exposing his throat to further assault. The action is an unconsciously submissive and Carter feels his cock twitch at the knowledge. His hands glide along the low-riding waistband of his subordinate’s hips. He can feel the curves of his hipbones, the light smattering of dark hair beneath his navel. The younger man’s entire body seems to shiver at the touch. Carter presses his teeth beneath the jugular, nipping just sharply enough to make it sting, but not so much he will leave a bruise. There are times he wishes he could do such a thing, leave the evidence of himself scattered across the expanse of Dean’s pale skin. Bites, scratches, the indentation of his teeth.

He wants to suck dark bruises into Dean’s throat, the delicate crease at the backs of his knees. He wants to see the impression of his fingers dark on the inside of Dean’s thighs, let them wreathe the narrow jut of his hips. But he can bear no mark that could potentially expose him. Such marks would hint at a lover and a more thorough felon would seek to put a face and name with the bruises. Forgoing the temptation, he moves his lips back to the younger man’s and thrusts against the willing body hard. Dean rides the muscular thigh between his legs, shameless in his pleasure. They don’t kiss, but fit their lips together, panting into each other’s mouths.  
Carter’s hands slip down the back of Dean’s jeans to grasp the firm flesh of his buttocks, causing Dean to groan into his mouth, grinding forward helplessly. Carter shoves his hips into his subordinate’s and the pressure is nearly painful. Dean tears his mouth from the older man’s with an audible, gasped ‘Fuck!’

“Bedroom,” Carter says. Dean nods, swallowing thickly. His lips are red, swollen pink from their heated kisses and flecked red with blood. Carter pulls his hands from Dean and lets the younger man turn and head down the hall toward the bedroom. Dean’s fingers brush against his as they cross the threshold.

  
Carter pushes him down to sit on the edge of the bed and the younger man’s hands immediately reach for him, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Carter’s jeans and drawing him close. His breath wafts across the older man’s belly, stirring the soft dark hairs that dust the pale skin beneath his navel. He is bulkier than Dean is, some it being his age and some being his natural body build. Most of the bulk is muscle; Carter has kept the same specific workout routine since he was twenty. Dean’s hands rub over his torso as he presses hungry kisses to the pale skin. Carter rests his own hands on the younger man’s shoulders, watching him. Dean’s teeth scrap flesh just over the muscle of his stomach, hard enough to raise pink welts from the tender skin. The lieutenant grits his teeth at the sharp, pinprick pain that accompanies the action and Dean smiles up at him, sharp blue eyes greedy and wanting. Shoving those long boned hands aside, Carter reaches for the worn jersey; there are two spots of blood on the fabric. He bunches the loose material in his hands and yanks it over Dean’s head. Beneath it is, an expanse of bare skin.

“Back,” he orders. “On the bed.” Dean pushes himself back toward the headboard, reclining on his elbows in pose similar to the one he had taken on the stair when Carter found him. There is a bruise on Dean’s torso, blue and black, jaundice yellow at the edges. Every breath makes the lines of demarcation in his abdomen appear more prominent. His expression is sharp and hungry as he looks up at his boss. He hooks the waistband of Carter’s jeans and yanks hard. He pitches forward, hands shooting out to catch himself before his full weight falls onto Dean. The younger man is quick, pulling him down to bring their mouths together. For now, Carter obliges him, feeding on the heat of Dean’s mouth, the slickness of his tongue. He grinds himself down against Dean, shivers with the pleasure of it when their cocks rub together through the separation of denim. Dean’s tongue licks across his lips.

“Want…” he hisses. “Carter. Fuck.” His words are a frantic litany against Carter’s lips as his nails dig half-moons of blood into the flesh of his back. His fingers curl so tightly into Carter’s dark hair that his roots scream at the pressure and Dean is rising up, pushing Carter back. That’s not going to happen. He doesn’t give up his control. Carter slams his officer on the mattress hard and slides back, off the bed. Dean lies still, panting hard. Carter stands at the foot of the bed, looking at the disheveled mess of his subordinate laid out on the now wrinkled comforter. He pushes his jeans and boxers down in one motion before stepping out of them. Dean’s eyes darken as he takes in Carter’s naked form. Without being told, he works at his own jeans, raising his hips as he shoves them down the length of his long legs. Carter lays a hand on his thigh as Dean attempts to kick them off the rest of the way. He stills the man’s spastic motions and draws the jeans off and dropping them to join his own on the floor. Dean watches him with hooded eyes, expression as shuttered as before. Carter moves to the small table at the bedside and opens up the drawer. Lubricant and condoms.  
*  
Dean is stretched out across the comforter, feet flat on the mattress, his narrow hips propped on a pillow and his lean thighs spread wide. Carter presses two fingers inside, too fast, the way that Dean likes. His masochistic streak has advanced since the City of Industry case and he no longer craves gentle or calm. And that suits Carter. They’ve both changed. Dean arches and groans breathlessly as Carter’s fingers slide in deep, finding the small bundle of sensitive nerves with precision. He murmurs softly to himself, eyes unfocused and pleasure-drunk as his hips ride the stabbing thrusts of Carter’s fingers. With his free hand Carter reaches out to stroke the younger man’s face, palm rubbing rough against the grain of his stubble. He touches his finger to the corner of Dean’s eye and catches the moisture that has gathered there.

“Look at me, Dean,” he says softly. The younger man’s eyes flit to meet his and his lips part in a sharp gasp as Carter adds a third finger and spreads them inside him. He watches Dean’s pupils eclipse further and holds his gaze steadily.

“C’mon…enough. Just…c’mon,” Dean wheezes. Carter nods, pushing at the younger man’s shoulder to urge him onto his side.

“Nnugh…” Dean’s muscles lock, stubbornly resisting.

“Like this,” Carter whispers sharply. “Or not at all.” This is the position least likely to exacerbate Dean’s injuries, but logic has never worked well with Dean. Ultimatums he hears more clearly. The young officer begrudgingly rolls onto his side and Carter molds himself against the sinuous line of Dean’s back. He slides his arm beneath Dean’s neck and grasps the younger man’s chin lightly, turning his head so his cheek doesn’t rub raw against the pillow, as it is often Dean’s habit to bury his face against the fabric. It’s a non-verbal order and one he knows his subordinate understands. His hand wraps loose around Dean’s throat, fingers fitting beneath his chin. He can feel the heavy, fierce thrum of Dean’s pulse beneath his fingertips. He shifts his hips closer, cock sliding into the hot cleft of Dean’s buttocks. The sharp hitch of breath is like a brief, split-second pause in the turning of the world. When he pushes in, it is with more force than he intends and Dean cries out incoherently. Carter can feel it, the harsh sound vibrating through Dean’s throat, against his hand. The lean body shudders helplessly, inner muscles contracting painfully around his arousal. He stills, waiting for Dean to adjust. He presses a soft kiss to the younger man’s ear.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s…it’s good, Carter,” Dean gasps out, twisting his head around to find Carter’s lips. The older man obliges him, fits his tongue into Dean’s mouth. The faint coppery tang of blood mingles still in the wet heat. He strokes his fingers gently over the younger man’s skin. His fingers flex against Dean’s throat, feeling the Adam’s apple jump against his palm. His thumb slides into Dean’s mouth and the younger man’s lips part, sucking enthusiastically. Carter thrusts in hard, feels teeth scrape his thumbnail and a low mewl escape from Dean, a pitched, drawn out sound that bridges pain and pleasure. They find a rhythm from there. Dean cants his hips backward, meeting Carter on every hard stroke. His head falls back to the pillow, body bow-string taut, breath coming in wheezing gasps. Carter’s hand moves from his throat to Dean’s chest, bracing, pulling him back into each thrust.

“C—Carter…” Dean rasps. The older man pushes a leg between his thighs, opening Dean further, changing the angle, pushing in, and grinding deep. The action drags a long helpless whine from the officer’s throat, more akin to pain or death. His hand finds Carter’s, threads their fingers together over his chest and Carter can feel the hard, spastic pounding of Dean’s heart. Life and blood. He nuzzles the sweat-damp curve of Dean’s shoulder, bites at the tender juncture. When he draws out, he purposely drags across the stretched, sore rim. Dean groans, bites into his own hand to stifle himself. Carter holds himself just inside, doesn’t move, doesn’t let Dean move. Their harsh, panting breaths fill the silence, overlapping the soft whir of the ceiling fan. He can hear Dean’s heart, the thrum of his blood, feel droplets of sweat slide down his skin and Dean’s. It lasts long enough for Dean to beg, to sob softly when Carter restrains him from moving again,

“Please…” A whisper, an entreaty. The word slips from his lips, broken and cracked, nary a breath to push it past his throat. Carter’s lips trace the shell of Dean’s ear, murmurs softly, words meant to soothe. But they don’t have the desired effect. Dean just struggles harder, pushes back to force Carter’s cock deep inside, cries out when he does. Even in this, he’s impossibly defiant. So Carter finds the rhythm they both want, the one they both need.

He drives into Dean with hard, jabbing thrusts, thrilled by the whimpers and supplicant little moans that fall from those red lips, by the helpless rippling and clenching of Dean’s body around him, hot and impossibly tight. His other hand moves to grasp Dean’s cock. The younger man’s hips push forward and he hears a torn, tormented version of his name rattle the air. Carter doesn’t try to draw back anymore, just grinds deeply into Dean now, pressing in at that angle that pushes well past what Dean can take, makes him mindless and boneless with a combination of pleasure-pain. He’s close; Carter can feel it in the tension of his entire frame, the way he sobs when Carter’s thumb drags just beneath the head of his cock. Dean’s hand curls more tightly around Carter’s, holds it so tightly to his chest, that Carter has no doubt there will be another bruise there in the morning.

“Let go…” Carter rasps. Dean’s breath hitches and he comes, his body shuddering violently. Carter’s hand doesn’t still. He strokes Dean through it. Dean’s inner muscles clamp down and his body ripples around Carter’s cock, pulling his own climax from him. He presses his mouth against the sweat-slick skin of Dean’s neck as he comes, hips thrusting mindlessly in a series of uneven jolts that wring shivery pitched cries from Dean. They lie still as they come down; one of Carter’s hands remains captured in Dean’s, held against a pounding heart, the other cradling his now soft, slick cock. Carter kisses Dean’s ear softly and the younger man traps a whimper behind his teeth as Carter slips out of him.

He rolls out of bed, first disposing of the condom and then retrieving some wipes from the bathroom to clean them both up. Dean is still lying on his side, chest rising and falling. Carter grabs his shoulder, pressing him onto his back. His fingers take quick inventory of Dean’s body, ensuring that their activities have not furthered his injuries. He whines and tries to push away when the cloth in Carter’s hand swipes over still very sensitive skin.

“Dean,” Carter says sharply and the movement immediately ceases. He looks up at his boss, sleepy and pliant. Obedient. For now. The lieutenant tosses the wipes and climbs back into bed beside Dean. The younger man turns his head, looking at Carter through eyes that seem darker than before.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Shhh…” Carter murmurs, smoothing his hand through the younger man’s close cropped hair. “Get some sleep.”

*

When he wakes, it is close to two am and the bed beside him is cold. Some soft muffled sound reaches his ears. He can see a sliver of light spilling from the bathroom door. Carter throws off the covers and slips out of bed. The sounds, when he gets close enough, are unmistakable and familiar and he knows before he even pushes open the door, what he will find.

  
Dean is naked, sitting back against the tub, one arm resting on the toilet seat. There is a small splash of vomit still dotting the side of his mouth and his chin. His face is flushed red and his eyes are swollen. Carter snaps a dish rag from the towel rack beside the sink and shoves it under the tap to get it moist. He crouches down beside Dean and wipes his mouth with the towel. Dean doesn’t look at him, but the sobs return anew. They are not soft, or small, but great, heaving and full of such agony and hopelessness that it makes Carter’s heart wrench in his chest. He hates himself for pushing Dean into this, because each time is worse than the last. And they all know—he, Dean and Ty and even Jamie—that is how Dean will die. He will die young. Alone. In pain. At the hands of some dealer, some banger. He brings Dean to him, drags the collection of long limbs into his arms and holds him while he cries.

Many long minutes pass before the sobs subside, become soft, hitched breaths. There are times, like this, when Dean seems so extraordinarily small in Carter’s arms, that it makes him feel ill. Sickened with himself, for never resisting, letting Dean come back again and again. He thinks that this is the sin that Nicole would not forgive him for. Not because Dean is a man, but because there is so much of a child still in the hardened shell that passes itself off as a fierce street cop. Fragile, broken. They don’t take each other’s pain; they don’t even share it. They only exchange it for a time. Dean, brilliant and reckless and so fucking young, does not know any better; Carter should. Ty would say that two broken people can’t fix each other. They can only tear themselves apart further on the jagged edges, the shattered pieces of each other.  
Suddenly, Dean draws out of his arms. He doesn’t pull away exactly, but stretches out on the bath mat and lays his head down. Carter rubs a hand over the younger man’s back.

“C’mon,” he urges. “You can’t sleep here. You’ll get sick.” Dean sniffs and shakes his head.

“No…” he replies. “I want to stay here.” The younger man’s face is turned away, and Carter can hear the finality in his tone. Carter sighs. Kid is stubborn, no doubt about that. He drags the bathrobe from the rack and lies down beside Dean. He spreads the soft worn fabric over them as best he can, mostly covering Dean, then settles against the younger man’s body, chin resting in the crook of his young subordinate’s shoulder, wrapping one arm around Dean’s lean form. His fingers move across Dean’s open palm and the long fingers flex as Carter finds his way between them. Dean links their fingers then and holds tight. He’s asleep within in minutes. Carter stays awake for a time. Minutes. Hours. He’s not certain. Dean’s heartbeat is slow and even, chest rising and falling against Carter’s arm. Proof of life, of safety. For now.

Tomorrow there will be another case, another identity to take on and Dean will walk a wire a thousand feet in air with no net to break his fall should he stumble. Here, in the quiet of the bathroom Carter thinks he could say the words. ‘I’m transferring you out of the unit’ ‘This can’t be your life’. They are there, heavy on his tongue. But he doesn’t wake Dean and he doesn’t speak. In the morning, they will move around each other, eyes downcast, ornery and uncommunicative until they’ve both had showers and coffee. Dean will shave while Carter gets dressed. They won’t touch and they will respect space and privacy as if they did not spend this last night exploring sweat-slick skin with fingers, lips and tongues. When they walk out that door into another bright Los Angeles morning, they will be Lieutenant and Officer again and Carter will send Dean out amongst the wolves. Just before he falls asleep, he hears Nicole’s voice in his head. _One day soon, Carter, your lamb won’t come home._

 

End


End file.
